Read No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Online

Authors: Anne R. Allen

Tags: #anne r allen, #camilla, #homeless

No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (9 page)

BOOK: No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)
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I nodded and told him about Brianna's note.

He didn't look surprised. "Silas has been getting irate phone calls from employees all weekend. That's why he let Lureen bully him. He's never had anything like this happen to him and he's mortified. The Ryders are one of the old-money families of this county."

That explained a little about why it had happened so fast.

"Speaking of mortification, I'm really sorry about the man in my bedroom this morning."

Plant gave me a grin. "Sorry? Why, darling? A man that hot? I'm the one who should apologize. The poor man obviously thought I was your wayward significant other. Where did you find him? Is he an actor or something?"

Maybe it was good Ronzo thought Plant was my boyfriend. At least that way I didn't look like some lonely, desperate divorcée who fell in bed with anybody who bought her a glass of chardonnay.

I felt doubly embarrassed when I thought of the domestic fantasies I'd been having about Ronzo earlier.

He was a one-night stand. At least he'd used a condom. I could pretend it never happened.

I tried to keep my tone breezy. "He's some tourist from New Jersey. He's been hanging around the store all week. I'm afraid I didn't find out what he does for a living. Is that terrible?"

The admission made me feel embarrassed all over again. Even worse—I'd never even found out his real name. I'd tried to get a glimpse of his driver's license when he had his wallet open, but I couldn't see much without looking like a total snoop. Maybe Ronzo was short for Ronzoni? He could be a blond Italian. Like Jon Bon Jovi. He had mentioned he was a fan.

"So what did you two talk about?"

"A little about rock music. I guess he used to play in a band, and he'd into guitar gods like Stevie Ray Vaughn and J. J. Tower. But mostly we talked wine. And Edna Valley. He's very interested in your neighborhood."

I didn't tell him what really happened. The truth was, Ronzo had done very little talking. Somehow too much wine and too much stress made me break every rule of good manners and talk about myself. For hours. I told him about my mother's awful sixth husband, Count Whatsis, who took every penny the family had left.

And about my ex-husband, Jonathan, once the darling of Fox News, now apparently on a permanent international bender.

And the nice policemen I fell in love with two years ago.

And my wild trip to England to try to revive my career, which had resulted in a bout of homelessness and…

All of it made me so embarrassed. Why had I told some stranger all that?

Plant's expression got serious again. "Well if he's interested in moving to Edna, he'd better be a rock star himself. We should never have bought that mansion out there. If we could unload that pile and buy something sensible, everything would be fine…" He stopped himself. "I don't want to talk about our damned financial disasters. Let's talk about your hunky friend. Seriously, you didn't ask him what he does for work?"

"I did, but he was cagey with his answers. I got a feeling he could be in law enforcement. Why did you think he's an actor?"

"Because he looks awfully familiar." Plant offered me a refill on my coffee. "I'm almost positive I've seen his picture somewhere, but I can't quite place him."

Maybe that's why Ronzo felt like "home". Maybe I had seen him on TV or something. I hadn't asked him if his band was famous. Maybe he actually was a rock star. But it didn't matter.

The one thing I knew for certain was that I'd never see him again.

Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door

 

 

 

Doria sat in the Tarzana McDonald's, reading Betsy's Hollywood mystery novel, Murder on the Yellow Brick Road. She was trying to let her mind go blank—except the part that was schmoozing with movie stars in a fictional 1930s Hollywood. Sometimes when she needed to come up with a new idea at the magazine, she'd do that—turn off her brain and immerse herself in some totally unrelated reading until the idea burst forth.

But ideas weren't bursting. Anger was. Lots of it. It seemed she'd been married to somebody who'd been doing a very competent impersonation of Beelzebub.

And now he was dead, and she didn't even get to yell at him.

She hoped the real Satan was punishing him. All that Hell stuff the nuns taught her back at St. Rita's—for once, she hoped it was true. Right down to the flaming pitchforks.

But anger wasn't going to get her out of the Tarzana McDonald's, and the staff were starting to look at her funny. The lunch rush was on, and people were waiting for tables.

Okay. She had a car. It was Betsy's car, but Betsy would have to understand. What Doria needed to do was get some truth into the newspapers lickity-split. The best way would be to talk to the investigators and let them know she would cooperate in any way she could.

And that Harry would never, ever kill himself.

Who knows, maybe if they found out they were wrong about the suicide, they'd find out they were wrong about all the other stuff they said Harry did.

No. She didn't even believe that herself. It all made a dreadful kind of sense.

The nasty thought came to her that Harry probably had indeed been using her magazine to launder money and shelter ill-gotten funds. He was always so cheerful about putting cash into the magazine's coffers.

Who knows? Maybe that was the reason he'd married her in the first place. Their whirlwind "romance" had been more of a business merger than a seduction. He'd plied her with spectacular gifts, but never bothered much with declarations of love. He seemed to want the prestige of having a style maven on his arm, and of course she was wildly grateful to find an investor who could keep her magazine afloat.

It had seemed like a good enough deal at the time. At the age of fifty-seven, she hadn't wanted the kind of romance she had with Joey Torres, her first love, or the glamour she sought with Chad, Sergio, or Jean-Pierre—or hot sex, like she had with Wayne and Brad.

Betsy had warned her not to accept Harry's proposal, convinced Doria needed to find another Joey, but Doria really had been perfectly happy to marry for security. It had seemed okay to have separate bedrooms and only get together on the rare night when Harry felt romantic enough to keep his teeth in.

But the laugh was on her. She'd wanted somebody to keep the wolf from the door and she'd married the damned wolf. And now people would think she was a wolf too, unless she set the police straight about a few things.

So that's where she should go: San Luis Obispo.

She would talk to the people who were investigating that fire.

She needed to tell them everything she knew. Especially about that phone call from the person who called herself Mistress Nightshade.

Chapter 26—Blue Notebook

 

 

 

After Plant left, reminding me of the Chanticleer concert that evening, I bounced around the cottage, wondering when the awful L.A. people would burst in on me again.

I wasn't much looking forward to this evening's concert. I'd hoped maybe Plant and Silas would cancel the plans for dinner beforehand. George and Enrique always ordered the most expensive wine and expected to split the bill.

I should probably have been packing. But I couldn't force myself to do it yet. I wanted a few more days to enjoy having a home of my own. I was about to be homeless. Again. The thought filled me with dread.

I changed the sheets on the bed and tidied the bedroom. Next to my nightstand I found a small spiral-bound blue notebook.

Ronzo's.

He'd written something in it after he got a phone call at dinner last night. A cute low-tech aspect of him I found endearing. But the notebook must have fallen out of his jeans pocket when we undressed.

I hoped it wasn't hugely important. I had no way of returning it to him. I didn't have his address or phone number. Or even a real name to Google. Maybe it was a bit rude to pry, but I flipped it open, hoping to find a phone number or address where I could return it to him.

Inside was nothing but numbers and squiggles. Pages of them. Like some kind of code.

Maybe he was a spy. That was as likely as anything else. How could I have fallen into bed with a nameless man I knew absolutely nothing about?

I dropped the notebook in my pocket. Maybe I'd run into him on the street or something—although I knew it would be better if I didn't. He was a complication I didn't need.

There was way too much stuff to deal with at the moment. The imminent death of the bookstore made me even sadder than losing my cottage. I was losing everything I loved.

I retrieved some broken-down boxes from the recycling bin and taped them together. It might not be my job to pack up the inventory, but I had some of my own things decorating the walls and the back office.

Silas and Plant would have to find a place to store my things. I had way too much stuff for a single room, which was all I was going to be able to afford, even if Silas could afford to pay me to work in another one of his stores.

First I packed things in the back room, then moved into the store. The fog hadn't lifted, so I turned on the lights, even though customers might see and think the store was open.

And sure enough, as I packed up my library lion bookends, book-shaped pen holder and framed portraits of Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf, I heard heavy knocking on the door.

I looked out and saw Brianna's face peering in the window. The girl didn't look well. Her untended streak of blue hair was fading to the color of old cheese, and her face was red, as if she'd been crying.

I opened the door and saw Brianna was accompanied by a young man. A very large young man, sporting a muscle tee-shirt and several ill-chosen tattoos.

"She wants the money you owe her," the muscle man said with a growl. "Now."

Chapter 27—The Yellow Brick Road

 

 

 

Doria finished her second cup of coffee slowly. Unfortunately a mother with four large children hovered nearby, giving her threatening looks, as if they owned her table.

Doria tried to ignore them as she gathered her thoughts. Okay, she knew what she had to do. She was a respected businesswoman. She'd talk to the police calmly and offer her help. She'd make it clear she had nothing to do with Harry's schemes. She'd even tried to talk him out of investing in that stupid boat company. Who would want to buy a four-person submarine? She had to tell them she was on their side and would do whatever possible make reparations to Harry's victims.

A trip back to the San Luis Obispo property would do her good. It would allow for closure. And of course she'd need to make arrangements for Harry—he had no other heirs that she knew of. She could also see whether anything could be salvaged from the house.

The grainy newspaper photographs didn't show if any part of the house had survived. But there was probably hope for the travertine marble fireplace. The stone should be worth something. And maybe some garden sculptures had avoided the flames. She'd bought so many lovely garden things during her stay there last January. Maybe she could start a garden art store.

Lovely place, San Luis Obispo. It would be a nice drive. Although it would be nicer if her tummy weren't hurting so much. The Vicodin was wearing off.

Damn. The Vicodin.

It was still at Betsy's house.

Doria looked through the purse, hoping to find something—at least Tylenol. She pulled out an amazing array of make-up before she felt it—something that might be a prescription bottle way in the bottom. Yes. She had to adjust her glasses to read the label, but there it was.

Oxycontin.

She said a silent thank-you to Betsy. She should have known Betsy would have the best drugs. She always did in the old days.

Doria took one tablet with the rest of her coffee and collected her things as the large family hovered closer. As Doria smiled sweetly and stood, they scrambled past her so fast they nearly knocked her over.

She went to the counter and ordered another coffee for the road, filled her water bottle, and headed for the parking lot.

The Mercedes still had nearly half a tank of gas and the edge was starting to come off her pain, thanks to Betsy's magic pill.

She had a whole bottle of Oxy, coffee, half a chocolate bar, and a sunny highway ahead. Doria's own yellow brick road. She would survive.

As she headed north on the 101, she realized how lucky she was. After all, if she hadn't been in L.A. getting the tummy tuck, she'd have been in that house with Harry. She would have burned up in that fire, too.

Somebody up there had to be watching over her. She touched her angel pendant in silent thanks.

So, okay her life had been gutted. Now it was time to get rid of the moldy drywall, expose the beams, and do a complete remodel. She'd done it before.

It might even be fun.

Chapter 28—Mafioso

 

 

 

I tried to ignore Brianna's bruiser boyfriend and gave the girl what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.

BOOK: No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)
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